


Flu Season

by 4badmice



Category: Diagnosis Murder
Genre: Established Relationship, Illness, Jesse's sick, M/M, Steve's caring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:45:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4badmice/pseuds/4badmice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse falls ill. It's a good thing that he's not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flu Season

 

I was just about to throw the spaghetti into the boiling water when I heard the front door. I had never been particularly interested in cooking (if one didn't count barbecue), but recently I found that I actually enjoyed preparing food and had even begun to peruse my dad's somewhat haphazard collection of recipes.

I put the pasta down again when Jesse came into the kitchen; he looked exhausted and unceremoniously sagged against me as I folded my arms around him.

"You all right?" I asked.

He took a moment to answer: "Yeah... just knackered."

It was rare that he came home like that. He was what my father called indefatigable, at least if he didn't work double shifts.

Yet when I had manoevered us over to the couch and we had sat down, Jesse was still leaning against me heavily and didn't make any attempts to move even though, if I may say so myself, the spaghetti sauce smelled wonderful and he usually was famished after work.

"Jess?" I asked, running a hand through his hair. He only groaned; worry made itself known in the pit of my stomach.

"You're not all right, are you?" I asked into his hair. "Your skin is clammy and you're shivering."

"Nothing ever escapes you, does it?" he muttered.

"Of course not, it's my job to notice things."

"Huh."

"Come on, then," I said, "let's get you to bed."

He didn't resist when I got up and pulled him with me. In the bedroom, I helped him to remove his clothes and slip into the things he wore at night. He moved slower than usual since his limbs were aching (which he didn't like to admit) and seemed relieved to finally be lying down. Since he was meanwhile shivering rather hard, I spread an additional blanket over the quilt,.

"I'm so cold," he muttered, curling in on himself.

I had intended to go and make him some tea and find the thermometer and maybe the hot water bottle my dad has got somewhere, but I couldn't bring myself to leave Jesse like that. So I slipped under the covers with him and gathered him in my arms to warm him. Gratefully, he burrowed into me as tightly as possible, but it took more than ten minutes for the trembling to abate.

I could now feel just how hot Jesse's skin was, his temperature seemed to be increasing rather rapidly.

"I'll be right back," I therefore said, "I'll just go and get you some things."

Jesse made a sound which could have meant both protest or consent. With no small amount of regret, I disentangled myself from him, tucking the blankets tightly around him before leaving the room.

 

I found some herbal tea which contained sage; my father swore by it and made me drink it if I so much as sneezed. Because I didn't like the taste of the "infusion", as Dad called it, I usually tried to keep my sneezing to a minimum.

Ten minutes later, I made my back to the bedroom with a tray. Jesse had dozed off, barely visible save for a few strands of hair. I put the tray on the nightstand and pulled the covers off his face; he was very pale, but his cheeks were reddened from the fever, and his forehead was slightly sweaty. At least the tremors had stopped now.

"Jesse," I said gently, not wanting to startle him. "Wake up, sweetheart."

He blinked his eyes open and looked at me blearily: "'m awake."

"I've brought you some tea."

Jesse slowly sat up and sighed contentedly when I put the hot water bottle at his feet. "I didn't know just how cold they were," he murmured, sniffing at the tea. "Ew."

"I know. Drink it nevertheless."

Jesse pulled a face, then winced; his face probably hurt. He began to sip the tea, however, and I sat down on the mattress with the thermometer: "Do you mind me sticking this into your ear?"

"I never mind if it's you doing the sticking," he muttered into the mug. I grinned, but his temperature was at 102,2, which was enough to increase my worry.

"So, doctor," I said, keeping my tone light, "what do you recommend?"

"Do you have any antipyretics?" he asked. "Ibuprofen or Paracetamol?"

"I think so. I'll go and have a look."

When I returned with the pills, Jesse had put the mug back on the tray and had slid down again. He took some Ibuprofen, then closed his eyes, pulling the blankets up around himself.

"Is there anything else I can do?" I asked.

"No, thanks," he opened his eyes once more, giving me a weary smile: "You're great. Now go and have some dinner. I need to sleep."

I had completely forgotten about that, but now I realized how hungry I was.

After I had eaten, I looked in on Jesse once more; he didn't stir. I hoped that he was going to feel better after a good night's sleep; I had only seen him ill once, which was when he had been infected with smallpox, and that had after all not been an ordinary ailment.

 

I watched TV for a while, but I couldn't concentrate properly. If my father had been at home, he'd have been able to take my mind off things, but he was in San Diego, where he had been asked to speak at a conference.

When I realized that I didn't even know which show I was watching or what it was about, I switched the TV off again and decided to call it a night.

 

Jesse had turned on his side when I tiptoed into the bedroom, and was breathing audibly but steadily; I lay down next to him and had soon dozed off as well.

I don't know how long I'd slept when something startled me awake; it was Jesse, who had sat up rather abruptly.

Due to my profession, I'm no stranger to being woken at night, therefore I was immediately alert: "Jess?"

"Sick," he croaked and scrambled to his feet. Before I could react, he was out of bed and had disappeared in the bathroom. I heard the unmistakable sounds of someone throwing up, then the toilet flushed and there was silence. I waited a while, unsure whether Jesse would want me to come in or not. When it remained silent, however, I knocked on the door: "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. I knocked again: "Jesse?"

Now I thought I heard a feeble groan. Not hesitating any longer, I went in. Jesse was lying curled up on the floor, shivering violently and hugging himself.

"Jess..." I knelt down next to him.

"I'll be fine," he murmured, his voice hoarse, "just need a moment."

Sometimes even I tended to underestimate Jesse. He was made of much sterner stuff than his cheerful, innocuous nature suggested. I had been saved by his hands when he had operated on me, had survived a bomb blast with him and had seen him work under extreme pressure. He wasn't a coward and certainly not nearly as soft as one might think, and he certainly didn't hesitate to push himself beyond his limits if need be. I often marvelled at his strength, his lightheartedness and amiability, and I couldn't bear seeing him like this, which was so unlike anything one was used of him.

"Can you sit up?" I asked.

Shakily, he pushed himself up on his arms; his movements were sluggish. I quickly supported him until he was leaning against the tub, breathing heavily and shaking like a leaf.

 

When it was apparent that Jesse's stomach had calmed down and no further bout of vomiting was imminent, I helped him back to bed. He immediately curled up on his side, still shivering.

"You're burning up," I said, "let me take your temperature again."

It had climbed to 104, which wasn't good; the Ibuprofen didn't seem to have had any effect. I tried to get Jesse to drink some water, but he kept turning his head away: "Won't keep it down."

"You've got to drink something."

"Can't."

It was apparently true that doctors made the worst patients, but that realization didn't help me.

"Come on, Jess," I said gently, "just a few sips."

He complied this time, but five minutes later we were back in the bathroom.

 

By the time it turned light outside, I had long since given up on sleep; all I could do was be there for my partner. We were sitting on the floor of the bathroom because the nausea, just like the high temperature, wouldn't lessen. I had wrapped a blanket around Jesse and kept him upright; he was so exhausted and feverish by now that he kept drifting off, leaning against me with his arms wrapped around his aching torso. Every so often he would abruptly start out of his doze and scramble over to the toilet as quickly as possible, retching. His stomach was completely empty by now, which made it even more painful, but he had been right, he couldn't keep anything down.

He looked dreadful, too: he was white as a sheet, and there were dark shadows underneath his eyes.

"I'm not going to watch this any longer," I said after the latest bout, "I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No, Steve," he was gasping as he hadn't gotten his breath back yet, "it's really not that bad."

"Are you kidding me? You must be completely dehydrated by now."

"Steve, please..."

"Jesse," I stroked his face with the back of my fingers; he always brought out my soft side. "You know it's the right thing to do."

He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes glassy, then sagged visibly: "Yeah," he muttered, "I do."

"Well, then," I pressed a kiss into his hair. "Let's get going."

 

The End

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm no Native Speaker, therefore all the mistakes you might have found are mine.  
> The bit about Jesse having smallpox refers to season 4 episode 2.


End file.
